I’m not sure how many guys are reading this blog, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say not many. In any case, if you are reading this and you are in possession of a Y chromosome, I feel compelled to warn you that the following is likely to make you want to scratch your eyes out and set yourself on fire. Just sayin’.

Let’s file this under “keeping it real”, shall we?

I’d like to preface this with a joke I recently received in my inbox:

Psychiatric Study

No further studies are expected.

I laugh every time I read that one. Ah. Good times.

Anyway…

I hate my period. And by “hate” I don’t just mean your average, run-of-the-mill, “I hate it when telemarketers call” kind of hate. I mean I well and truly hate my period. I hate it with the white hot passion of a thousand blazing suns. It makes me cranky. I retain water and feel fat and yucky. And, let’s face it, it’s just gross. Blech. 

Because I’m apparently not that swift, I feel all miserable and wacky for a good two days before “it” shows up like a boot to the head and reminds me that I don’t really want to kill my husband. My period is just making me feel like I want to kill my husband. (He’s such a lucky man to have me for a wife, isn’t he?) 

I’m not sure why I’m so obtuse when it comes to PMS. Every couple of months, it’s the same. I complain to my husband that I’m feeling “off.” I exclaim that I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’m sad and cranky and feeling fat and gross and ohmygodblahblahblah it never changes. And yet, for some reason (mental block?) I have no earthly idea why I feel that way until – surprise!

My reaction is always the same. A big sigh. An exclamation. (“Crap!“) And then resignation. (“Here we go again. Crappity crappity crap. Crap!“) After almost 32 years on this planet, you’d think I’d get used to it, but no. I haven’t. And I likely never will. I am one of those women who will usher in menopause with a big, fat party. Anyone I have ever met in my life will be invited. I will expect lavish gifts and exhuberant, over-the-top congratulations from all. I will have balloon animals and a special sky-writing airplane, announcing to all who look to the heavens that I AM NO LONGER OVULATING! HALLELUJAH!

Each time I am forced to suffer through this indignity, I am reminded of when my second child was born. I came within minutes of a full hysterectomy due to massive hemorrhaging. And by minutes, I mean that the OR was being prepped even as my obgyn was leaning all of her weight into my abdomen (trying to push my uterus out manually? I’m still not quite sure…) and ordering various medications injected into my IV. At the last minute, the hemorrhaging stopped and, thankfully, the surgery was averted (though I still couldn’t feel my legs following my c-section, so it probably would have been a good time). While I am normally grateful that I didn’t have to undergo that particular surgery, each month (or so) a tiny part of me wishes that they had just yanked that obnoxious little sucker right out of me when they had the chance. How awesome would it be never to ever have to entertain Aunt Flo ever, ever again? Ever! (That’s currently the biggest “plus” to aging that I can think of.)

But then (because I’m weird like that) I start imagining that if my uterus was gone, all of my other internal organs would feel compelled to follow suit. I can see them falling out, one by one, like a game of Jenga. Take out the wrong block and the whole stack comes crashing down.

And then I’m back to being happy that I still have all of my girl parts intact.

Still. Having your period sucks, doesn’t it girls? It’s horrible. Brutal. Torture.

All I can say is that, if we women are forced to suffer through it, at least we are suffering in a time and place where there are modern conveniences at our disposal. Because I swear, if I had to use a leaf or something, heads would roll.

(What’s up with my thumb, by the way? Freakish…)

I think I need some chocolate.

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party |